Page 35 of A Perplexing Regency Romance (The League of Meddling Butlers #5)

On the night of the Secrets Exposed party, Mr. Browning had been told he need not wait up for the duke’s return. After having forgotten to call the carriage, though he had not forgotten at all, the duke had said Browning clearly needed to rest.

He did wait up, though. He needed to discover if his roguish moves had paid off. He’d allowed the switching of the shawls to go forward, he’d delayed the duke’s carriage, and he’d sent the daffodils to Lady Violet instead of Miss Fernsby.

He supposed it was how a highwayman felt when making off with the goods he’d stolen out of a carriage. It was time to have a look at what his efforts had produced. Was it diamonds or was it paste?

After the party, the duke’s carriage had arrived home and he’d been wheeled inside. For once, he did not have Sir Edward trailing behind him.

“Browning. I did not think you would be up, but as you are, would you care to explain how the daffodils I ordered for Miss Fernsby ended up being sent to Lady Violet?”

Mr. Browning stared unblinking at the duke.

He was caught. The magistrate was at the door!

How? It was only meant to encourage Lady Violet in her efforts at landing the duke.

She was not supposed to say anything about them.

She was meant to be flattered, silently, and then redouble her efforts to charm.

What was this new English habit of discussing every single thing that happened? He really did not find it very dignified. People ought to keep their own counsel, not go round allowing their thoughts to leak out of their mouths in a willy-nilly fashion.

He would be dismissed. What then? He had no other skills aside from butlering.

Nobody would ever hire him if the duke dismissed him.

He’d end up a laborer. He was not cut out for laboring!

He could not go round digging holes and hauling things around and doing whatever people did in wheatfields.

Or, heaven help him, he might be sent down to the mines.

He could not be a miner! The lack of cleanliness alone would kill him.

A hundred thoughts ran through his mind. Reasons and excuses, maybe he could even act surprised, as if he had not known he’d done it.

The duke’s eyes were boring into him. “Browning?”

“I believe I may be going senile, Your Grace,” Mr. Browning said. He did not know if it would be believed, but it seemed as good an excuse as any.

The duke frowned. He was frowning. What did it mean?

“I think you are just overtired, Browning. Take a rest, Frederick can manage things while you do. Going forward, maybe think about writing things down so you do not get confused.”

“Writing things down, yes, very good, Your Grace. I will write everything down. Absolutely everything.”

Was that it? Had he got away with it? Was he the highwayman who had escaped justice?

It seemed that he was. He was a regular Jack Sheppard.

That fellow might have been hanged at Tyburn, but that was only because he kept robbing people.

He did not know how to quit when he was ahead.

Browning was not so foolish. He’d never try the daffodils gambit twice.

“By the by,” the duke said, “I have engaged myself to Miss Fernsby. You are to have a new duchess in the house.”

Mr. Browning woke some hours later in his own bed.

As Frederick told it, he’d fainted dead away at the news of a new duchess to be installed.

He’d hit his head on the banister of the bottom stair on his way down.

They’d all stared at him for a few minutes, hoping he’d get up by himself, but he didn’t.

They’d hauled the duke upstairs in the throne chair and got him squared away.

Then they came back down and he was still lying there so the footmen and the grooms in the stables had carried him to his chambers and Sir Henry had been fetched.

That gentleman agreed with the duke’s assessment—Mr. Browning was overtired, and now the fall had jostled his brain and given him a lump on his head too. Quiet days were recommended until he felt recovered.

Recovered. How was he to recover? He’d been meant to lead the duke into a glorious match. One that would be talked of as the match of the season. Privately, he’d been hoping for the match of the decade. The duke was meant to wed a diamond, not the short daughter of a new baron.

He’d put so much work into it! He’d even gone rogue, all to no avail.

He’d stayed abed for a few days. He did not do so out of any physical need.

He did so for two reasons. One, he did not care to hear from the duke about banns or a special license or St. George’s, or solicitors drawing up the contract.

It almost felt as if he did not hear it, it was not true.

The other reason was that he preferred to hide from his fellow League members during this tragic interlude in his history.

Oh, they had all pretended that Miss Fernsby was perfectly acceptable, but they could not really think it.

Even if they did think it, perfectly respectable did not exactly cover him in glory.

As he lay there, day after day, the staff was quite solicitous.

As if they could perceive that he needed cheering up, they all did their bit.

Cook sent in marvelous little cakes and plenty of tea.

Frederick assured him that all was running smoothly in the household.

The maids even sent him a card, urging him to good health.

It was all very nice, but he still had The League to face.

He, Matthew L. Browning, butler to the illustrious Finstatten family, had fallen below the mark.

Oh, how he had privately laughed over some of the other members’ adventures in matchmaking.

But none of them had ended with the short daughter of a new baron.

It could not be avoided longer though. The usual League meeting was this very day. As Mr. Browning was currently at his leisure, he did not even have to invent another supposed accident happening to one of the many of his invented old aunts who had nobody to rely on but him.

He’d fairly dragged himself up the stairs into the club’s set of apartments in Cheapside.

“It is said that Miss Fernsby was discovered sitting on the duke’s lap,” Mr. Harkinson said gleefully.

“Oh yes,” Mr. Wilburn said, “they were in that room with all the strange pictures. Nobody is entirely clear how Miss Fernsby ended in that particular location, but it is said that there may have been some sort of scuffle.”

“A scuffle ?” Mr. Wilburn said, sounding scandalized.

Mr. Wilburn nodded gravely. “The famous pawprint of Intrepid, the cat who sailed with Cook, was even knocked off the wall.”

“Bad business, knocking things off walls,” Mr. Feldstaffer said, to no purpose whatsoever.

Mr. Browning had not been privy to the idea that Miss Fernsby had been discovered sitting on the duke’s lap. Or worse, that there had been some sort of a scuffle. How very typical of a newly minted baron’s daughter to be involved in a scuffle and leap into a gentleman’s lap.

But if Miss Fernsby had instituted this scuffle… For the first time in days, a small glimmer of hope began to light in Mr. Browning’s breast. “Gentlemen, could it be that the duke has been trapped? Has Miss Fernsby maneuvered herself into a compromising position to trap him?”

He did not know how to get the duke out of it, but it would be something to work with. The duke was trapped against his will.

“No, no,” Mr. Penny said. “Sir Edward has been telling all and sundry that he knew how it would be, as the duke has been besotted for weeks. Ever since the encounter on The Strand.”

And just like that, Mr. Browning’s glimmer of hope was snuffed out.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

While Hugh was not an overly formal sort of gentleman, he did recognize that his wedding could not be a run to Gretna Green.

He’d rather it could be, but he was the Duke of Greystone.

In any case, he was just this moment confined to a wheeled chair so there was plenty of time to plan, and he would not insult Finella’s father by something less than splendid.

The Duchess of Ralston had taken everything in hand and seemed to know what was required.

It was lucky she had, as his butler was still abed and only taking a few jaunts out of doors to take in the air.

Poor Frederick had been left running the household and he would not know the first thing about how to proceed with a wedding.

The fellow seemed alarmed enough over the idea that there would be a duchess roaming round the house and asking him for things.

Hugh had written to Finella’s father, asking for permission to go forward with the engagement and introducing the name of his solicitor for a drawing up of a contract, should the baron agree to it.

That gentleman had written him back giving his approval.

The letter was so filled with good cheer and good sense that Hugh was sure they would get on famously.

He did not see how it could be any other way, as Hugh intended to be ridiculously liberal in the terms. Finella could spend what she liked with no discussion with him about it.

He rather hoped she would buy more of those velvet dresses that looked so well.

Jewelry too. He’d already visited Rundell & Bridge and purchased a delicate platinum and topaz ring for her little hand.

He’d seen she owned a topaz necklace and it would match very well.

Then, of course, there were his mother’s jewels.

Lucinda had inherited some pieces, but what was left was extensive.

There were some very good tiaras in the collection.

He’d already sent one over to Finella, in case she wished to wear it to the wedding.